


Nice, Nice, Very Nice

by heddychaa



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Humiliation, M/M, PWP, Rape, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-21
Updated: 2010-10-21
Packaged: 2017-10-12 19:46:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/128392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heddychaa/pseuds/heddychaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Hart finishes what he starts. He's not about to leave that encounter in the elevator hanging.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nice, Nice, Very Nice

**Author's Note:**

> I needed to get this out of my system. If you choose to read it, please be aware of the warnings. This scene takes place soon after the events of KKBB in S2. amand_r beta-d it: thank you, darling.

He's in the kitchen, contemplating his toaster, when he feels the familiar, cold weight of a gun barrel land against the base of his skull.

"Nice digs," John Hart compliments, and grinds his pistol into the nape of Ianto's neck, back and forth like tuning a radio. "You're here alone?"

Ianto lifts his hands to where John can see them, trying to keep his breath steady as his gaze rakes across the kitchen counter. His mobile is by the fridge, on top of a pile of the day's mail. Out of reach.

"If it's all the same to you, I'll just take your silent submission as a yes." Ianto can hear the predatory smirk in his voice, that pleased, catlike smugness.

The toaster pops.

Ianto startles at the sound, his heart thumping hard in his chest and ears. His whole body is vibrating with anxiety, anticipation. A hot blush burns across his face at the sound of laughter behind him.

"If it's all the same to you," he grits through his teeth, hoping John Hart can't smell fear, "Maybe you could cut the shit, tell me what you want from me, and then get _the fuck_ out of here?"

"Hmm," John replies. He traces the path of Ianto's spine with the gun, dragging it slow and teasing from his neck down to an invisible point between his shoulder blades. Ianto stays very, very still, though he can see his hands, still held at shoulder-level, are beginning to tremble. Fear? Adrenaline? Exhaustion? When he'd been a kid and disobedient, his teacher had forced him to stand by his desk with his arms raised at his sides until pain and tiredness had made his shoulders quake. It's a lot like that. Not just in his muscles.

"What. Do. I. Want." John continues, using a series of thoughtful taps of his gun on Ianto's neck as punctuation. "That's a tough question, right this second. You see, I guess I'm a little late getting here. What I _wanted_ was to catch you still in your suit— _love_ the fussy pink shirt on you, by the way—but you've put that little dream to rest, haven't you?"

A hand tugs in illustration at the stretchy collar of his black t-shirt. "Not that I don't like this whole greaser 'tight-jeans-tighter-t-shirt' ensemble. I was just hoping to get the _full experience_ , you know?" The shirt snaps against his skin.

Despite himself, he feels his eyes roll. "What 'full experience'?" he asks, his tone resentful, like he's reciting the set-up for a knock-knock joke.

"That's easy," John says, casually, and suddenly the blade of his foot is crashing into the back of Ianto's knee.

Ianto goes down hard, off balance, one leg then the other and his arms flailing ineffectually for the support of the kitchen counter. The tile floor cracks reverberation all the way up his thighbones when he lands; his hands slap palms-down on the porcelain. His eyes screw up, teary, but he doesn't cry out. It's a small victory. He'll take it.

The gun is pointing down into the top of his head, now, the barrel nestled in his hair.

" _Jack's_ full experience," John elaborates, spitting Jack's name. "Fucking you. I'm assuming that's how you keep him around—hands."

When he says it, _fucking you_ , a thrill of fear runs through Ianto's body, seizing his heart. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes a moment--

and raises his hands, resting them together on the nape of his neck. He sits back on his heels. Being in this position makes his skin crawl. "Yeah," he drawls, and that's when he realizes how tired he is of all of this, "I've got him wrapped around my little finger. That's me."

He feels the cold heaviness of cuffs being locked around his wrists, no chain for give between them.

"I detect sarcasm," John says, and the gun caresses Ianto's cheek, turning and stroking like a sympathetic hand. "So who is it, then? Not the techie, she's too damn earnest. The doctor? No no no no, I've got it. Freckles! I've had her already. Great tits. Better mouth."

"What was that, process of elimination?" Ianto chokes out, refusing to let it rattle him. The fear is tugging all his muscles tight. He tries to convince himself it's for Gwen's safety. He isn't getting enough oxygen. "If you're trying to impress me by how well you know Jack's tastes, you're doing a piss poor job."

"Keep talking," John sneers, "Do whatever it is you need to, to convince yourself I'm wrong."

Ianto grits his teeth.

"Oh, never mind what you mean to him. Your indignance is a sure sign he's fucking you, at any rate." The gun, above his head, draws a circle. "Turn around."

Ianto pushes up with his toes against the floor and spins himself around on his knees, never rising.

He angles his face up, gets a forehead full of pistol. It's the first time he's actually _looked_ at John since he arrived. His eyes are dark, heavily lidded. He's licking his teeth. Smiling. He doesn't look like an animal, no: he looks like a spoiled prince, sociopathic and used to being indulged.

Fresh anger flushes through him. "What're you hoping to achieve, here?" he snaps, not quite shouting, but not as cold or calculating as he intends, either. "Are you honestly stupid enough to think you can punish me for 'stealing' him? He's not even _mine_. You know that. Oh! Or maybe you think if you use me enough I'll be too dried up for him to want anymore, is that it? Damaged goods, like you?" He's fucking babbling, he doesn't even know what he's saying, flinging petty insults-- he just wants something, _anything_ to land.

The butt of the pistol cracks him hard across the forehead, no warning, and splits his brow. Blood blinds his right eye.

John's such a fucking talking head, it's easy to forget he's a threat. Not now, though. His face is furious but smiling, no flush to suggest he's flustered or lost his temper. His gun is prodding Ianto's molars through his cheek. Ianto's hands are cuffed and he's on his knees. His mobile might as well be a mile away.

"Time to shut up," John announces. "So how about it, Eye Candy? We need to plug that facehole of yours. Would you prefer my gun or my cock?"

Ianto swallows down his dry 'Neither' when the barrel of John's gun smears roughly across his lips. He tastes gun oil. Blinking back blood, he fixes John with a glare.

"No?" John purrs down at him. "Not gonna open up for that? Alright, then, I think you know what to do."

"What if I bite you?" Ianto asks, but there's no real threat in it. Hypothetical fucking question. He's lifting his hands in unison, the butts of his palms resting against one another, to John's waist.

The gun traces a cold line down his jaw, but he's focused on the task at hand, fumbling with his immobilized hands to undo John's belt buckle. "You won't," John answers, "Not if you value your teeth."

"What if I _don't_ value my teeth?" he asks. The feeling in his gut. . . it's not disgust, not quite, more some sick apprehension. He's undoing John's fly, now. John's cock is poking, urgently hard, through the opening.

"Don't be silly," John replies, and sucks air through his teeth when Ianto cups the length of his shaft between his cuffed hands, a gesture almost like prayer. "Pretty boy like you? You think Jack wants you for anything else?"

 _What if I don't care what Jack wants me for?_

John's smell is different. Not bad, but different. Ianto is studying the shape of his cock, the bend and girth and colour of it. Stalling. It looks imposing. That's just because he's afraid, he tells himself. He's standing on the line between apprehension and outright panic, wavering back and forth dangerously.

"So pretty," John murmurs, grabs him by the hair, and pushes his head roughly forward. John's cock glances across Ianto's cheekbone. Ianto's lips are crushed against his balls. John holds him in place, there, and Ianto is breathing in the smell of him, the sweat, his eye winced shut against John's skin. It's humiliating. He struggles to suppress a pathetic little whimper.

When John pulls Ianto's head back again, his cock is streaked with a dark smear of Ianto's blood. He doesn't release his grip. Ianto's scalp stings.

"Clean it," John orders. He thrusts his hips forward obscenely, to make Ianto flinch. It works.

Dread fists in Ianto's belly, and then he's leaning forward, bathing John's cock with the flat of his tongue. He tastes salty sweat, the bitter copper tang of blood.

"Yeah," John praises, twisting his hand in Ianto's hair painfully. The barrel of his gun is lightly resting against Ianto's temple. "Mmngh."

Ianto uses one hand to tug along the length of John's cock, pulling his foreskin back to expose his cockhead and then pulling it up again. His cock is slick with Ianto's spit and blood. Ianto's forehead throbs. His free hand dangles uselessly where it's cuffed at the wrist while he pumps John's cock, following his palm with his tongue. Despite himself, he can feel his own cock stirring, swelling. He fucking hates it.

John jabs him in the cheek with his pistol, saying, "Open."

Ianto opens. John's cock bumps against his chin and then sinks into his mouth, deep and thick and unrelenting. He gags on it.

"Is this what it's like when you suck Jack off?" John asks, cheerfully sadistic, almost disaffected. "He was always so rough with me—liked to fuck my face until I cried. Should I do that to you?"

There are already tears on Ianto's cheeks, wet hot streaks. His jaw hurts. John's cock is shoving brutally into his throat and he's too full and too scared and too angry to care about technique or actively pleasing the man with the gun. He tries to let himself go slack, let John just fuck into him like a ragdoll, but John's strokes are slow and purposeful, teasing, running his shaft deliberately over the surface of Ianto's tongue. Keeping him focused.

"Lower your hands," John says, grunting as Ianto swallows around him helplessly. "Touch yourself."

He hates himself for fumbling with his own zipper, his hands clumsy in the cuffs, shaking with fear and fury. He hates himself for being so hard, for letting out a muffled moan when he finally manages to catch the hot, bare skin of his cock in his palms. He thrusts between them, listening to John's sounds of approval, tilting his head back so John can get more leverage fucking his mouth.

"Look at you," John crows, and god help him, Ianto's cock jumps at the sound of it, "You love this, don't you? _God_ you're pretty. I can see why he likes you: you turn the loveliest shade of pink when you're choking."

Just in case Ianto forgot about the gun, John thrusts the barrel of it hard against his Adam's apple, crushing his throat.

"Like a flower petal!" John says.

As John's thrusting becomes more staggered, erratic, Ianto thinks (in some safe part of his mind separate from all this) it _must_ be almost over. He will have a hot shower, an angry wank, and two retcon pills, in that order. Or maybe not the retcon. Probably not the most tactically wise thing in the world, to go through something like this and then deprive yourself of the knowledge you need to deal with the aftermath.

That's if John doesn't kill him.

He pushes the thought out of his mind. Jack warned him about John, he's seen what John is capable of, but Ianto can't—not _really_ —

And then John is pulling his cock free of Ianto's mouth, and Ianto's chin is covered in spit, and the skin of his lips and lower face are all tingling like pins and needles, and Ianto is mentally adding 'brushing my teeth' to his list of things to be accomplished _immediately_ , if he survives this.

He flinches, but the shot of come never happens. He's left gasping for air, watching John fisting his cock slowly, appreciatively, in front of his face. He wipes himself off on Ianto's cheeks, one and then the other, streaking Ianto's skin with the stick of his own saliva.

"Not bad," John says. "I'd have liked a little bit of effort, maybe some finesse, but a hole's a hole, anyway."

"Fuck you," Ianto heaves, numb lips slurring the words. His cock throbs between his palms, sheltered by them.

John is circling him, now. "I suppose this is where I make a pithy remark about how I intend to?" The sole of his boot hits Ianto between the shoulder blades, pushing him face down. Ianto tries to move his hands in time to brace his fall, but he still ends up with his cheek against the tile, face-down, arse-up, helpless. Revulsion and fear curdle his stomach.

And oh, now his knees decide to start hurting, too.

Fingers jab at his mouth. Work their way past his lips, pry his jaw open by the teeth. Slip, tasting of gasoline, something sour and chemical, across his tongue. "You know what happens next," John murmurs into his ear, and when did John get down on the floor with him, when did he drape his body over Ianto's back? The barrel of his gun is tugging at the waist of Ianto's jeans, Ianto's boxers, pulling them both down to bunch around his knees. His fingers are thrusting slowly, back and forth, over Ianto's tongue, tickling at his gag reflex playfully.

His mind quietly detaches from his body—or no, maybe it is just slinking away into some place deep inside him, too far for John or pain to follow.

His mouth is whimpering and moaning against the tile, sad noises, and John's spit-wet fingers are squirming intrusively inside his hole, and Ianto's body can feel the shapes of John's knuckles hard and knobby inside him, the sharp burn of being stretched but never quite snapping. John is talking, something insulting, probably, something humiliating, but all Ianto processes is the rising and falling cadence of his voice, the dangerous edge to his tone.

 _I'm going to die drooling on my own kitchen floor_ , he thinks, hopelessly, as the slicked head of John's cock presses inside him.

He can't help it. John is driving into him, now, the barrel of his gun shoved between two of Ianto's ribs and his hand clasping Ianto's hip, and it hurts, everything hurts, and whatever dark disconnected place he's hiding in, John's there too with a gun and a smile, and he wails, "Please don't hurt me!" And the words come out broken, jolted out of place by the rhythm of Ianto's face skidding across the floor.

"A little late for that, don't you think?" John coos back, and laughs. "Or maybe you mean 'don't kill me'? I can't promise anything there, kiddo—" he's interrupted by a desperate moan from Ianto when his cock thumps his prostate "—I admitted I had a problem, but I never made it to step two."

Full with John's cock, he feels it moving inside him and pushing through all his resistance, he's fucking _impaled_ by it, bruised by the gun at his ribs and the cuffs jarring between his wrists and the floor. John bites him on the back of the neck, like a dog showing dominance, and maybe that's all they are, now, stripped of everything human and left only with these shreds of the vicious animalistic things that spur John to draw blood and own and punish, and Ianto to wince and shrink and _take it_ because all he has left is his crude biological imperative to survive.

"You wanna live?" John taunts, his voice high with arousal and need and hysteria, and he's not long for it now, Ianto prays he's not long for it now. "Call for help. Call for Jack. See if he comes to save you."

And Ianto hadn't been thinking about Jack, not here, not in this awful place, but there it is, the thought of Jack, superimposed on John like overlaying film, superimposed on _this moment_ , and it's Jack riding him, Jack biting his shoulders and groaning his wet breath into Ianto's skin.

"What's wrong, sweetheart? Think he won't come? I thought you could depend on him for _anything_ , that he'd always be there to save you." He thrusts into Ianto hard, and all Ianto can hear is the slap of their skin together. "Go on. Try it. If you want to live."

 _No_ , he thinks. _Not that. I won't do that. I won't give him that._

Then John's hand is around his throat, crushing palm and digging fingers, and John's gun is scraping over his ear, and it just comes out: "Jack."

"Mm," John replies into Ianto's ear. His breath is hot. "Again."

Again, more urgently: "Jack!"

John's cock grinds into him, twisting. "Again."

Whinging, now: "Jack!"

John's dry hand on his cock, chafing over the hypersensitive skin, twisting and pulling.

"Jack," Ianto moans against the tiles, lonely, betrayed by his own arousal. "Jack, _Jack_."

John comes first, with a sound like a growl and a snap of his hips and his hand squeezing down painfully hard, vicelike, around Ianto's cock. Ianto whimpers through it all, "Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack." His pathetic little mantra.

And then he's coming, too, shooting into John's palm, John's hand cupped around the crown of his cock. Shuddering, wound too tense to let himself cry.

"You sad, beautiful little thing," John chides, pityingly, and smears his palm diagonally across Ianto's face, coating his forehead and the bridge of his nose with his own come.

John pets his head with the knuckles of his gun hand while Ianto licks the rest of the come out from between his fingers, too exhausted to be humiliated anymore. They rest like that, awhile, John's limp, bony weight sprawled across Ianto's back, his gun resting in Ianto's hair, his breath gusting across Ianto as he pants, the sound of it almost disbelieving. Ianto stays hunched on his knees, squeezing his eyes closed as if he's a baby and shutting his eyes to something will make it stop existing. The pain in his knees, his wrists, his jaw, his lips, his arse. . . it all throbs to the time of his pulse, a fresh ache each time his heart beats.

Eventually John climbs to his feet, and Ianto stays huddled on the floor, listening to the sound of denim on skin as John pulls his jeans into place, followed by the buzz of a zipper and clack of a belt buckle. A hand catches the collar of Ianto's shirt, stuck to the back of his neck with sweat, and _tugs_ until he's upright again, kneeling with his cuffed hands resting on his lap. John comes into view and Ianto bows his head by instinct.

"Look at you," John says. "You're gonna have a bruise on your face, I think. Might want to put some ice on it. . . or whatever. Whatever passes for cold compresses for you people."

Ianto shuts his eyes, nearly sobbing.

He feels the tip of a felt pen touch one side of his forehead, then his bruised cheekbone—scrawling something. "Eyes open," John says. "There we go. Nice, nice, very nice."

Ianto watches as John opens his wriststrap, tapping a couple of keys. The device inside trills cheerfully in response, and then John rotates his wrist so that Ianto can see the display. There's the unmistakable click of a camera, that artificial shutter sound. More tapping.

"We _must_ do this again sometime," John says as he undoes Ianto's handcuffs. Inexplicably, he peels Ianto's t-shirt away from his body. Ianto doesn't protest or struggle; he even lifts his arms.

So he wants souvenirs: a photo and a sweaty article of clothing. Trophies. What should Ianto care?

John leans in and plants a kiss in the centre of Ianto's forehead, sweet and chaste and affectionate. And then he's gone, leaving only a tingle of electricity on Ianto's tongue in his wake.

At first, Ianto can't even move: he just kneels there in the centre of his kitchen, shirtless, bewildered, in excruciating pain. When he tries to stand, his knees nearly give out underneath him, screaming _Enough!_ but he braces himself on the kitchen table, pushes himself bodily toward the counter and catches the edge of it in his palms.

His mobile, sitting innocuously on a stack of mail. Bills, junk, flyers. Right there within reach. Who the hell would he call? What the hell would he say?

No, best to stick to the original plan. Wash face. Brush teeth. Shower. Ret-con.

He stumbles to the bathroom, bouncing between the hallway's walls like a drunken pinball. In the mirror over the sink, his face is red with tears and purple with bruises, and there's still blood in his eye, sticky on his eyelashes, and a fingerpainted smudge of come bisecting his face. And then there's the marker, one word on his forehead and the other on his cheek. Permanent ink:

 


End file.
